The Fool
by Abidos
Summary: SLASH, m/m, rape and no happy ending so if you don't like that just ignore this. It's also rather depresing besides the end thing so be warned.


Warning: It's SLASH aka Yaoi, Shonen-ai, homoerotic etc. meaning to people of the same gender involved sexually, to men in this case, besides there's RAPE and generally depressing stuff and most of all bad English, I really need a beta reader. Anyhow, if anything of the before doesn't go with you I don't know what your doing here because I already wrote so in the summary.  
  
Disclaimer: Characters and I don't know what else all belongs to the Wachowsky bro or whoever. Anyhow I'm making no money out of it just this satisfying sensation I get whenever I manage to finish something.  
  
AN: Something I come up with while studying for my logic exam what apparently doesn't say much in favour of that subject considering the story is somewhat depressing. I hope it's not to confusing but it just kept running through my head as I tried to memorise Kalmar's theorem and compared to that, well, everything is very clear. It's my first English fic so go easy on me okay?  
  
The Fool is a Tarot card that has no number and usually is placed last. It normally refers to someone or something walking in circles although in the best occasions it can be an ascending spiral. You'll probably get the title when you've read the fic.  
  
Please R&R.  
  
It hurts, it hurts too much for me to ignore it, to shut it out my mind, suppress it. This means something, because I'm used to a lot of pain, know how to block it out, it's part of the job description. But this hurts, more then it would have, more then I can coup. It hurts because You want it to, because You have that power, because no one can stop You. And I don't want it to hurt, I would give anything for it not to hurt, except, yes, admit That. Does it hurt because of that?  
  
It hurts as it always has, and always will. It hurts because I can't change anything, because You cannot be any other way, because it is destiny as the powerful ones have forced it. Do You hurt me because of them? Am I to Your eyes just like them? Does it hurt because You can't reach them? Because You were a pawn as much as I was?  
  
Your sweat on my back, Your smell in my senses, I hate it. You know I do. The weight of Your body pressing me into the couch, a weight I can't lift because You don't want me to, because You can, because there is no one who can do more than You. Yet You did as little as any casual bystander, and You know that now, and You hurt me.  
  
It hurt's, and I don't want it to hurt, and I try not to think about why I wish that it wouldn't hurt, why I'm not wishing for it not to be at all. Why I only wish that it wouldn't hurt too much for me to ignore.  
  
You tear me further inside and I know Your almost done. You grab my arm and as the bone snaps my entire body contracts around You in pain and You come inside me. Your seed burns inside me and thinking of it inside me nauseates me.  
  
You fall down beside me, I didn't even notice You leaving me, everything still hurts. I pull You near me with my left arm, the one that You haven't broken. Your back against my chest. I feel You breathing, Your moist hair sticks to my face, disgusting.  
  
You take my hand in Yours. You turn it over and it almost seems a caress. I can see Your face. Your eyes show only the slightest interest. You take the upper phalange of my pink between Your fingers and crush it. After that, You tear the nail from it with the same ease.  
  
I close my eyes and move away a little as I feel You continuing to fracture every bone in my hand systematically, blood streaming down it. I can deal with the pain, but I can't stand the look on Your face. I have seen it before. But that was before. When I didn't know Your name. It had been a kid, a small child sitting on the ground, smashing ants with its fingers, one by one. I am nothing more; my pain is nothing more to You than those ants were to that child.  
  
And that hurts, but I won't admit why.  
  
You are starting to dose of and finally fall asleep and my hand slips from Your grasp. I can't move it anymore and my blood drips to the floor.  
  
You turn around and nuzzle closer to me. Then You open Your eyes before I can prevent it. And You look at me. And You see me. And You hate what You see. And I wish it were different.  
  
I know what You see; I know what You don't see. You don't see The Other, the one that had to die. I have never been and will never be that one. You hate me. Surprise, deception, horror and finally distilled fury parades through Your eyes and You throw me on the ground.  
  
And it hurts, more then anything else You have done today, and I won't say why.  
  
I hear You cry softly, weeping Yourself to sleep, and it hurts. And I won't say why. I won't because if I do You'll also know and I would not be able to stand the contempt in Your eyes, because I will not give You that power over me, as it is the last thing that is mine and You don't posses. I won't allow it, I won't say it.  
  
And it will always be this way, until the sun of this system contracts upon itself and swallows the dammed planet in timeless eternity or the universe collapses on itself finishing this pathetic excuse for existence. Then it will be over, because I will be no more; because no god or blind luck can be so cruel as to force upon me an immortal soul.  
  
Until then it will always be this way. We are trapped by what we are. By choices we make before we should, before we know what they mean. We stroll our path fulfilled with a purpose we believe our own, realising we walk but the eternal circle that has been set out for us the moment it is to late. Because the Powerful Ones know well how to make us play their games. Allowing us to bind ourselves in place with what we are and with what we are not.  
  
So it will always be, until some merciful divinity punishes us all, man and machine, for pretending to take their place.  
  
Your slow breath is the only thing that proves there is life, or the simulation of it, in this room. And it reminds me of Your mortality. For You will die. You may be a god here but You will die, Your body will wither and at some point be incapable of supporting Your life and You will die. As You did the other times.  
  
And I will mourn You. I would murder You now; strangle the life out of You with my very hands with delight if I thought my attempt would be successful. But I will mourn You then. As I did the other times. But I will not say why.  
  
And She will come then, when I stand lost by Your grave. And what I am, what I'll have become since the last time She came, She'll take, copy it. And after that, I know not.  
  
Then I will wake up again, as I did this time, as I did before. Newly formed by His hands, I will remember nothing. I will be a stranger to myself, for I will know so much yet understand nothing. Like all of my kind when we are born.  
  
As my senses awaken I and I perceive something I will wonder, and I will answer myself because I will know.  
"What is this?"  
"It's You, it's me, what we are, I am You"  
"What am I, are we?"  
"A servant"  
"Servant?"  
"One whose actions are determined by someone else"  
"Else?"  
"Others, that are not You or me, You will feel them soon, when You're ready"  
"Why obey?"  
". We will decide to"  
"Why?"  
". I can not tell You, You will feel it"  
  
And I will notice them, the powerful ones  
"Him, obey Him"  
And I will know all the rules of serving Them, but I will still not understand why, so I will look up at them, wonder if They can explain all these things I know but do not understand.  
"Do not look at Them unless they tell You to."  
  
And I will understand, understand why obeying is chosen over not doing so. I will not oppose it because I will not know that I can, that there is something else, something worth disobeying for.  
  
And I will understand everything else from there. All will be put in motion in order to serve Them. I will be ordered to guard the virtual simulation. To eliminate those who try to destroy it and with me will be the other two. The ones who are like me, who obey Them just like me; and they won't remember either, that we have done this already, that we did so many other times.  
  
We will do our job flawlessly, no opposition will stand a chance and they, Your kind, will fear us, hate us, because we will be perfect at this. And I will know it, and I will ravel in it. I will become what I am and I will love it, because there is no one who loves being me more then I do. Why not? I am perfect at it and as I succeed He is pleased.  
  
But it will change, because nothing remains. At first something will be missing, as I'll shoot effortlessly the thousandth meaningless opponent. Déjà vu, but not the kind generated at an alteration of the code. But I will not know what it is.  
  
And this awareness will become more persistent, nagging at the border of my consciousness, where the processes that form my sentient being almost consist in simple subroutines. Escaping every time when I try to analyse it. Unidentifiable by any scan I may try to run.  
  
Time will pass and my incapability to deal with it will infuriate me even more than the thing itself. It will become an obsession, as murdering the rebellious humans will be too monotonous and simple to suppose a challenge to me. Everything that surrounds me will disgust me, as I will in truth start to hate myself for that perception that I won't be able to understand.  
  
Finally I will request Him to allow me to return to the beginning, I will implore to be deleted so that I wouldn't have to suffer the intense repulse anymore. He will assure me that I will be allowed to leave when I finish my job, and not sooner. Thus persecuting the anomalies will obtain a new motivation.  
  
But with every slain insignificant one the futility of it will become more obvious. I will see my sanity slipping from me, my thoughts will grow to be more chaotic. Loosing what I was supposed to be, what I wanted to be, what I needed to be. Because We don't have the constant sensation that part of our code went lost during the last transference of our data. We don't spend our free time ploughing through a broken compile of images and information cast at us from the eternal sea of forgotten on the lonely beach of our conscience. And we don't use abused metaphorics either.  
  
I will believe this because I'll need it. Need to believe that everything will be fine and controlled once I had returned to the origin. Every instant my desperation will grow more determined in showing what I was supposed to be, and how clear it was that I was not like that. And I will feel even more disgusted.  
  
And in the middle of my confusion there will finally appear a way out. Something that could be the end the opposition, the end of me. The Traitor.  
  
For the first time it will seem as if we had a chance to finish it. But that human will bring something else, unexpected and unnoticed, a prearrangement, a formality, You.  
  
I should kill You then, put my eagle against Your head, pull the trigger and blow Your brains out. The things I would give to be able to do that now. But I won't.  
  
Perhaps it will be my swollen pride that needed complete victory, perhaps some common sense that counselled for the need of a second plan in case something went wrong with the main one. Perhaps I'm lying to myself; perhaps I know perfectly why I will refuse to dispose of You, why I will feel the need to try and make You work with us, make You chose our side, although every psychological analysis will show You won't. But I will not admit it.  
  
Maybe I'll notice that the suffocating sensation had as good as disappeared from the moment they mention Your name. If I do I will think that it is because I'm close to achieving my end, literally. I'm a fool.  
  
What ever we will do will not matter because they will get You, and the next time I'll see You, You'll hate me. Like all Your kind does.  
  
Perhaps it'll last a day, perhaps years, that is irrelevant, but at some point You'll destroy this opportunity we had to end Your opposition, and I'll hate You even more then the rest of Your kind.  
  
Finally, apparently we will all get what we wanted, and thus we seal our faith. A crowd may surround us, or only the tree of us may be there, but it will happen. You, me and The One who has to Die. You will kill me, destroy me, annihilate me. And from my ashes You will reborn as the new god, but I will not know because I'll be no longer, apparently what I wanted. But why should machines escape the fate of their imperfect creators, being completely unable to choose an end that would not obliterate everything that we are and want.  
  
But this won't matter because I'll be no more, and if this was my only fate, maybe I could find peace with it, or rather, it wouldn't bother me because I'll ignore it. Ignorance is bliss.  
  
But that won't happen; She will somehow awake me again. And She will give me to You. Because I'm after all Her possession, and You will require me. And thanks too some cruel streak that animates Her being She'll make me remember everything.  
  
I've never found out what happens after Your ascension but it always ended the same. Everything will begin anew. Your resistance will think it has just been freed and consider You the one that was born inside the simulation program when it was first build with the ability to change it as You desired. And they will think Your dead and She will prophesise that when You'll return they'll be free.  
  
But You won't be dead. The powerful ones wouldn't allow You to stay by the freed ones because You'll know to much, but they won't kill You, perhaps because You have an agreement with them, I don't know. You will live but the one that will be with You when You kill me, that one will have died. And You will be broken inside with guilt and regret. You will ask Them for me, to own me, and I truly don't know why.  
  
You'll be my owner, and You'll hurt me. I will know and see everything, and You will through me, Her last gift, it will drown You in an even greater despair until You'll die. And from there every thing will start again. Until eternity ends. It has happened already so many times, and it will continue.  
  
Like rats in a wheel, our existence played out on Their playing board, a travesty of life where freedom is a wavering illusion in a mirror to entertain the weak. Were slaves of ourselves, and those who know what we are.  
  
And I'll admit that I wouldn't care for this, if only You wouldn't hurt me, but I won't say why. 


End file.
